It all seems so prophetic now, the weather that day…
I was awakened early that Friday morning by the most powerful storm I had ever experienced. The thunder was deafening and to my delight, the world outside my window remained black despite it being well past sunrise. As the storm rolled on, I received a text from one of Tommy’s childhood friends asking if I had heard from my brother. Having spoken to him only 2 days before, I thought nothing of it and continued to ready myself for the day.
A while later, I received an email from a client telling me that Tommy had not shown up for work the day before despite confirming his start time via text on Wednesday night. Immediately, I knew something was wrong, as he never would have blown off work or disappointed a client. I called, but it uncharacteristically went straight to voicemail, so at 7:39am I sent an email hoping he had just lost his phone: “Hey call me. Your phone is going straight to voicemail.” Looking back, I should have known instantly. Yet, it wasn’t until I pulled up behind his parked car that the panic and fear I knew so well, caused my heart to sink into my stomach.
After a brief reprieve, it had started to pour again. By this time, I had found my way to the apartment Tommy had been house sitting only to be confronted by a 9’ iron gate without a callbox. It was now 9:15am but the sky was still cloaked in darkness. Unsure as to what I should do, I sat there in my car on the phone with my mother; our conversation mirroring those we had shared a million times before, singularly focused on my brother and what I was going to do next to help him.
As I watched the heavy raindrops pummel the windshield, I could feel the familiar anger begin to rise despite the increasing alarm. I suddenly became incensed, infuriated that this was my life; that this was always going to be my fucking life. I was always going to be forsaking my own wants and needs to chase after my brother. Skipping work to track him down in a shady neighborhood during a freezing rainstorm was forever going to be my life sentence simply because I was always going to care more about him than he cared about himself. Exasperated, I hung up on my mother after bitterly exclaiming “I’m so over this” and I stepped out into the rain.
Propelled mostly by fear and an illogical sense of duty, I reached through the bars of the fence to drag discarded cinder blocks, one by one towards the gate; stacking them so that I could eventually stick my feet between the bars and into each hole. I then climbed them like a ladder until I found myself standing on the other side. Having never been to his apartment, I had no idea what unit he occupied so I tried to open the only window within my reach, startling the occupants who heard my attempt. After an awkward exchange, his neighbor graciously allowed me to walk through her home to the back staircase leading to my brother’s apartment, tracking wet footprints as I went.
In vivid, slow-motion detail, I can see my left hand grab a hold of the wooden railing to climb the stairs; eventually walking past the empty cigarette packs strewn on the back porch, consciously reminding myself to yell at him later for starting up again. I can see my fingers reach out and turn the doorknob to his unlocked apartment, the intense aroma of a plug-in air freshener smacking me in the face as I entered. Completely unexpected, the sweet smell offered a brief moment of comfort and for a second, I felt like everything was going to be ok.
Upon entering, I was met with total darkness. In my naivety I called out his name, logically thinking that I did not want to startle him if he was home. I remember feeling profoundly afraid of the dark but simultaneously being too terrified to find a light switch. In the distance, I can see the faint glow of a TV as it suddenly wakes from sleep-mode and I begin to walk toward it not yet knowing my life will never be the same.
I wish I could say that I don’t remember anything about what happened after this point, but every single detail plays out like a silent movie on an endless loop. Guided only by the light of the TV, I saw his feet first: one flip-flop on, one off. I began to pray that he was just passed out, a scene I had come upon before, but his odd placement on the living room floor and the absence of his notoriously loud snoring suggested otherwise. Still in denial, I reached out to touch his left shoulder while saying his name in a hopeless attempt to wake him. My hand instantly recoiled in absolute horror as the unmistakable yet foreign sensation of a hardened, cold body sent literal shock waves throughout my entire being.
Panic-stricken, my eyes darted across the room, desperately searching for more information to somehow solve the puzzle that was laid out before me. I noticed the belt on the floor and immediately questioned its odd existence in the living room. The coffee table and its contents came into focus, offering a more complete picture: a measuring cup filled with water, a teaspoon, and a syringe. To my horror, the belt now made perfect sense.
What follows is much more blurred. There was a hysterical call to my mother in which I could only scream the same 2 words: “HE’S DEAD!” over and over and over again until she threw the phone down, unable to process what I was saying. Seconds later, there was an acute realization that I was alone which incited the most unimaginable and indescribable terror. Instinctually I made a desperate escape out the front door, fleeing down the steps in a futile attempt to stop reality from progressing any further; eventually collapsing into the arms of a complete stranger summoned to the front porch by my screams.
I have no idea how long she held on to me or even how I made it back up the front stairs, but I found myself crouched in a corner, left to watch helplessly as EMS went through the motions only to confirm what I already knew. I continued to stare blankly, refusing to leave his side for hours as countless agencies paraded in and out because I could not bear the thought of leaving him alone with strangers who did not know or love him like I did. There came a point where I was no longer allowed to stay with him so I was left to sit in my car alone, watching in sheer terror as they carried my little brother out in a body bag while I screamed at the top of my lungs and pounded the steering wheel with my fists.
I sat in my car sobbing for what felt like an eternity when the horrifying realization that I would eventually have to return to this godforsaken place to gather my brother’s belongings, washed over me. I literally could not imagine having to ever come back. I honestly knew I could NEVER come back. But more importantly, I desperately wanted to spare my parents, who were now making the 5-hour drive from Cleveland to Chicago, from ever having to see this place. So filled only with the dread of return, I forced myself back up the stairs only to find myself down on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of the fluid that had seeped from my brother’s body.
It took over 6 hours but in the end, the dishes were done, the refrigerator emptied, his beloved half-eaten brownies thrown away, and every last one of his things was shoved into my car as I ever so dutifully remembered to select a burial outfit and grab his favorite sweatshirt as a token for my mother. On autopilot and in complete survival mode, I found myself at the Salvation Army where I stood frozen, tears streaming down my face as a volunteer worked around me; throwing what had essentially been my brother’s entire life into a collection bin for others to rummage and claim as their own. It was an impulsive decision that I have regretted a thousand times over.
But there it was, in the parking lot of a thrift store during an ice cold rain, the devastating reality that I had worked so very hard to circumvent: Tommy had successfully beaten a heroin addiction in 2012 only to die alone on a living room floor without anyone knowing.
In the immediate aftermath I completely lost myself. The roles that were always so clearly defined became non-existent and the all-consuming grief impeded any efforts to redefine myself. The trauma of that day caused me to regress in ways I never would have imagined and led to paralyzing night terrors and anxiety attacks. Like a toddler, I became terrified of the dark and as a result, dangerously close to an Ambien addiction. The resulting PTSD is still triggered every time it rains.
I felt truly alone despite the near constant check-ins from family and friends. I felt like I was walking around carrying a secret that no one wanted to know. I found it infuriating to stand behind people laughing in line at Starbucks, seemingly going about their day without a care in the world. I wanted to scream, “I found my brother dead!” at everyone I walked by on the sidewalk. I felt like a freak, like I had lost the right to walk among normal people. Yet I went to work every single day trying to will myself into a normalcy I knew no longer existed.
The horror of that day is something that will forever haunt me. However, what proved to be even more devastating was the realization that it was I, Tommy’s unwavering protector, who unknowingly introduced him to his murderer. After accessing Tommy’s phone on the day I found him, I was immediately able to determine that he had only ONE drug dealer and that I not only knew him, I introduced them and interacted with him regularly as he is the son of one of my contractors.
Compounding the pain of that discovery was the subsequent realization that his dealer went back after delivering the fatal dose, scaled the fence just as I did, and found my brother lying dead on the floor. All of this was evidenced by the sudden radio silence that occurred on Tommy’s phone after his death, which was in stark contrast to the constant solicitation that had taken place throughout the 6 months prior. Consequently, I could have been spared the tragedy of finding my little brother dead altogether had the defendant had enough humanity to make an anonymous phone call. Instead, he just left Tommy there for me to find 3 days later, eliminating any possibility of an open casket at his funeral and preventing my devastated mother from seeing her only son and youngest child one last time.
All in all, there are over 450 text messages, which take over 37 minutes to read end to end, chronologically detailing how the defendant systematically bombarded my brother, offering him a plethora of drugs while taking payment electronically through the payment app, Zelle. What started off with requests for pills and pot quickly escalated to cocaine and an inquiry for heroin. There is even a text exchange where the defendant disgustingly acknowledges Tommy’s previous struggles with addiction; something he was proud to share and even bore a tattoo to honor. The defendant then makes mention of the “good place” Tommy is in now but then subsequently threatens him that “next time, he has to either pay upfront or promise to do it” after Tommy had second thoughts and backed out of his initial request.
There are pictures of drugs and of the locations where the defendant was hiding them for my brother in the homes of my clients in cabinets that I had designed. Every transaction of every drug at every price sold for over 6 months is detailed and recorded on his phone. But what is by far, the most disturbing evidence collected from his phone is the transcript that I have of Tommy’s last hours on this earth. On Wednesday October 9th at 9:30pm, the defendant drove to my brother’s residence to hand deliver a fatal dose of heroin. He asked if he could “walk inside” to which my brother simply replied “sure”. The defendant then texts an hour later asking: “how is it”. A reply was never sent because my brother already lay on the floor dead.
But none of it matters. None of the pictures, none of the payment transactions, none of the defendant’s own words. In any other county in this state, this crime would have been charged as a drug induced homicide, as there likely has never been such an open and shut case. Especially considering that cases involving a singular dealer who preferred documented electronic payments are not commonplace. Yet, despite the mountain of irrefutable evidence and the defendant’s own words outlining his starring role in my brother’s death, this case was never going to be tried in the manner in which it deserved based solely on politics.
So as some sort of consolation prize, I get to see my brother’s murder reduced to little more than a slap on the wrist, plead out as a case fit for probation despite the extenuating circumstance of death and a statute that has existed for decades that would have held the defendant accountable for homicide. A simple routine distribution case where the defendant is commended for not having a previous record and painted as a model citizen for having been home schooled.
I realize how strong the tendency is to offer leniency when there are no “known” prior offenses and the defendant has a “good” background and strong family support. However, those factors are exactly why leniency should not be granted in this case, as it is the chronic historical absence of consequence that led to my brother’s death at the hands of the defendant.
Unlike most that sit in this courtroom, the defendant has had every opportunity to choose the right path. He has been afforded luxuries that most could not even dream. He doesn’t come from a broken home; he didn’t grow up poor. He has parents who are still married and offer unwavering support and he has siblings that love and adore him. He grew up enveloped by the Romanian church and went to a private college to study theology until he was expelled for selling drugs. He is married, has children, and owns a home.
Yet, with every single opportunity, he willingly and wantonly chose wrong over and over again. Not out of necessity or survival but out of sheer audacity and apathy. For him this was a game, this was a way for him to feel powerful in his pathetic life and he did so by profiting off my brother’s pain. You have only to read the hundreds of text messages that are dripping with bravado and written in gangster-like lingo, despite his privileged upbringing, to see how little he feared consequence and how much his ego factored into his chosen occupation.
The defendant’s sentiment throughout the entire 6-month exchange is in severe contrast with that of Tommy’s, whose one-word answers and blatant unwillingness to engage in small talk only exemplify his depressive and conflicted state of mind. His angst is palpable yet completely ignored by the defendant whose only focus was to stroke his own ego by repeatedly boasting of his own prolific drug use and proficiency in securing any request while brazenly delivering to locations within direct eyesight of his employer, his father, and myself. He even bragged about making drug deliveries with his wife alongside him in the car.
Needless to say, my brother absolutely deserves justice for what was essentially a systematic, prolonged execution by a punk who repeatedly preyed on his weaknesses and loneliness. It took less than 6 months for the defendant to unravel what my brother spent almost a decade valiantly maintaining. My brother had moved to a new city where he knew no one, he had never lived alone, and at 41 he desperately wanted connection and a family of his own. What he needed was a friend. So much so, that I once emphatically encouraged the defendant to befriend my brother after hearing they had met once for a beer. I even offered to pay for the next time they went out not realizing I was talking to a wolf in sheep’s clothing who was secretly sabotaging my efforts to keep Tommy safe. Instead of gaining a friend, my brother was essentially stalked and prodded to buy more and more of a never-ending offering, being enticed with quantity driven “deals” and promotional giveaways by someone who was only interested in lining his own pockets.
How dare you allow your lawyer to even suggest that you were my brother’s friend. What kind of friend learns of a previous struggle with addiction and then repeatedly offers to hand deliver drugs? What kind of friend goes back and sees someone lying on a floor dead or dying and then leaves them there for their loved ones to find days later? Is that the kind of friend you would want for your own little brother, whose name is also ironically Thomas? Is that the kind of friend you hope will one day cross paths with your children?
A year after my brother’s death I finally told the defendant’s father, whom I adore and had been stoically working alongside, that his son killed my brother. Knowing that he knew they were acquaintances and after hearing that his son bore the responsibility for his death, I asked him how his son initially responded to the news of Tommy’s death. His father revealed that he was a bit shocked by his lack of response considering they had hung out together and that his only statement was: "well that's what happens when you do drugs". So again, Zechary, does that sound like something you would say upon learning that a “friend” died?
Zechary Gabor is a habitual offender who has continually escaped repercussions by relying on his cherub façade, white privilege, and a family that will not allow him to fail or suffer any real ramifications for fear of the exposure and shame they would suffer in the eyes of their religious community. He has had every conceivable advantage in life but instead of honoring his good fortune, he has enthusiastically chosen to break the law despite the obvious and known consequences to himself, his family, and my brother. The defendant deserved the harshest consequence permissible for his actions simply because without him, my brother would not be eternally paying for his own. And to put it simply, using his own words, he deserved that consequence because that should be “what happens when you SELL drugs”. Sadly, it just isn’t what happens in Cook County.
So, despite this slap on the wrist sentence being an absolute insult to my brother’s life, I will forever relish the fact that you are now a convicted felon, that your wife is now married to a convicted felon, and that your children will one day Google your name and see your mug shot. I pray you will be forced to think of my brother and the pain you caused his family every single time you apply for a job, remember that you cannot vote, or mourn the fact that you can no longer own a gun to honor your family’s perverted right-wing ideologies. But most of all, I hope that the memory of seeing Tommy on that floor haunts you as much as it haunts me.